


The Wife

by Violsva



Series: The Landlady [4]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Female John Watson, Fluff, Friendship, Genderswap, The Sign of Four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the course of an investigation, Jane grows close to one of Holmes' clients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For this fic I do recommend that you begin at the [beginning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/706894) of the series.

The first book edition of my novel _A Study in Scarlet_ was published in July, and I was sent a free copy of my own. I left it conspicuously on the hall table after opening my mail, though I doubted Holmes would be any more prepared to compliment it than he had been before.

I had never expected to write. But some time after my marriage, when Holmes was engaged on the Continent in a matter with which I could not help, I had read over my old journals. I had always thought that Holmes’ cases would make good reading, and had encouraged him to write them up, but he had shown no interest. And there they were, written up already.

I would certainly not have called myself a great stylist. But the events themselves were fascinating enough to make up for any deficiencies in my prose. And so I chose the first case I had seen Holmes work on, and struggled with the narrative for weeks before I realized the cause of my difficulties and found a solution. After that it had all been quite easy.

I was in my sitting room when Holmes returned from an errand. I tried not to make it obvious that I was watching for his reaction through the open doorway between the rooms, but of course this was Holmes. He picked up the book, glanced over it, and then raised his eyebrows at me. “I am glad, of course, of your success,” he said, “but I cannot congratulate you.”

“You still don’t like it, then?” I asked.

“You have heard what I have to say about it, Watson,” said Holmes. “You should have stuck to the science of it, the analytical reasoning. There was no need for romanticism.”

“The romance was there,” I protested, rising and entering the front hall. “I could not tamper with the facts.”

“And yet you quite happily did so in other ways,” he said drily. “I find your two selves in that story fascinating. The doctor, and the landlady, and neither of them you. You have completely buried anything of yourself in their conventionality.”

“It suits the story better,” I said. “And it is more what readers would expect.”

“Never mind what ridiculous notions they may have, write down the facts,” he said. “The focus should be on the methods in the first place, not the personalities; you might as well leave them as they were.” He started upstairs. “I don’t suppose there was anything of interest in the papers?”

“Nothing you would consider so, I believe,” I said, following him up. “You are not engaged upon anything at present, then?”

Holmes entered his rooms and set down a packet on his mantel. It was from the chemist’s down the street. I suspected I knew what it was.

“Nothing,” he said, crossing to the window and thrusting open the curtains. “I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the dun-coloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material? What is the use of having powers when one has no field upon which to exert them? Crime is commonplace, existence is commonplace, and no qualities save those which are commonplace have any function upon earth.”

Holmes had started back towards the fireplace, where he had left his package, and I had opened my mouth to reply to his tirade when, with a crisp knock, the parlourmaid entered, bearing a card upon the brass salver. “A young lady for you, sir,” she said.

“Miss Mary Morstan,” Holmes read. “Hum! I have no recollection of the name. Ask the young lady to step up. Don’t go, Watson. I should prefer that you remain.”

Miss Morstan entered the room with a firm step and an outward composure of manner. She was a blonde young lady, small, dainty, well gloved, and dressed in the most perfect taste, but with a suggestion of limited means. Her dress was a sombre greyish beige, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull hue, relieved only by a suspicion of white feather in the side. Her face had neither regularity of feature nor beauty of complexion, but her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. Yet her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”

“Mrs. Cecil Forrester,” he repeated thoughtfully. “I believe that I was of some slight service to her. The case, however, as I remember it, was a very simple one.”

“She did not think so. But at least you cannot say the same of mine. I can hardly imagine anything more strange, more utterly inexplicable, than the situation in which I find myself.”

Holmes rubbed his hands, and his eyes glistened. He leaned forward in his chair with an expression of extraordinary concentration upon his clear-cut, hawklike features.

“State your case,” said he in brisk business tones.

She did, with admirable calm given the strangeness of it. Then she handed over the letter.

“Well, really, this is a very pretty little mystery!” said Holmes, and I thanked heaven he had found a distraction that he liked. “What do you intend to do, Miss Morstan?”

“That is exactly what I want to ask you.”

“Then we shall most certainly go – you and I and Watson. Your correspondent says two friends, and I think you may find it more comfortable.”

“Watson!” she said, staring at me. Then she laughed. “Oh! Oh, how funny. I have read your _Study in Scarlet_ , Miss Watson, and I very much enjoyed it. But I really had no idea that you were in fact a woman. Do come, please.”

“I shall be proud and happy,” said I fervently, “if I can be of any service. But I am not Miss Watson – that is, it should be Mrs. Holmes.”

“I’m sorry – sorry for miscalling you, that is. But thank you. You are both very kind. I have led a retired life and have no friends whom I could appeal to. If I am here at six it will do, I suppose?”

“You must not be later,” said Holmes. “There is one other point, however. Is this handwriting the same as that upon the pearl-box addresses?”

“I have them here,” she answered, producing half a dozen pieces of paper.

“You are certainly a model client. You have the correct intuition. Let us see, now.” He examined the papers, giving little darting glances from one to the other. At last, after a few more questions, our visitor replaced her pearl-box in her bosom and hurried away.

Standing at the window, I watched her walking briskly down the street until the grey turban and white feather were but a speck in the sombre crowd. I stared after that, as well, until I could not pretend to myself that I still saw her.

“Anything of importance, Watson?” asked Holmes languidly. He had lit his pipe and was leaning back with drooping eyelids.

“No,” I said. “That is, I don’t know what you make of the case.”

Holmes handed me the letter and told me something of handwriting analysis, before he darted out to research the matter. I sat in the window, with my thoughts far from our sitting room. My mind ran upon our late visitor – her smiles, the deep rich tones of her voice, the strange mystery which overhung her life. If she were seventeen at the time of her father's disappearance she must be seven-and-twenty now – a sweet age, when youth has lost its self-consciousness and become a little sobered by experience. When I was twenty-seven I had been nursing in a London hospital, as yet neither thrilled nor dispirited by foreign wars.

I was married now, and quite settled in my life, but I felt inexplicably excited at the thought of seeing Miss Morstan again, and helping her through the tangled web surrounding her.


	2. Chapter 2

When we arrived at Pondicherry Lodge, my heart still rejoicing at the thought that Miss Morstan would receive the fortune she, I thought, so clearly deserved, the darkness of the house worried Mr. Thaddeus Sholto, and he went in ahead of us to see to his hysterical housekeeper. Holmes examined the holes and piles of earth around the house as he did so; our client and I stood to the side. Miss Morstan, at the first sound of the housekeeper’s weeping, had taken hold of my hand, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to pull her closer to me. She was some inches taller than I, but she leaned against me as if I could provide her comfort and protection.

Too soon, though, Sholto came running back in a state of shock, and we followed him and Holmes into the house. Mrs. Bernstone, the housekeeper, was worse off than he, though she knew nothing of what might have happened to her employer to cause the horrible expression she had seen.

“The ladies must remain downstairs,” said Thaddeus Sholto at that, his teeth chattering.

“I will go up,” I said. “If he is not dead he may require medical help.” I had not considered my words carefully; Mrs. Bernstone trembled when I said that, and Miss Morstan patted her hand and stayed behind us to comfort her.

After we had discovered the body of Bartholomew Sholto, and Holmes had examined the room, and Mr. Athelney Jones had come in and made his pronouncements to Holmes (all the while ignoring my presence with an air of grand tolerance for Holmes’ oddities) – after all that, I escorted Miss Morstan home.

I had found her bright and placid by the side of the frightened housekeeper. In the police’s cab, however, she first turned faint and then burst into a passion of weeping – so sorely had she been tried by the adventures of the night. My sympathies and my love went out to her, even as my hand had in the garden. I felt that years of the conventionalities of life could not teach me to know her sweet, brave nature as had this one day of strange experiences. I pulled her across the cab to me and gave her my handkerchief as she wept.

“I am so sorry,” she said, gasping. “It is simply all of this at once -”

“Of course,” I said. “Of course. My dear.”

I held her and rubbed her back in the dark cab. It was a motherly action, perhaps – I thought she must assume that it was – but I did not feel motherly. I was not so very much older than her, though I look ten years older than I am.

“Oh, what you must think of me, Mrs. Holmes,” she said when she could speak again. She tried to pull away from me, but I kept my arms around her.

“You must call me Jane,” I said. “And I know it is only the shock. Don’t worry.” I placed my hand on the back of her head and she leaned against my shoulder again. Her hair was very soft.

“You have been so kind,” she said.

“Not at all,” I told her. “What else could we do but help you? You are in a dreadful situation. Besides, you are our client.”

“Mr. Holmes’, perhaps,” she said, “but I meant you, Jane. I feel better just knowing you are here. Mr. Holmes inspires confidence, but you – you are wonderful.”

I could only keep holding her. I felt thrilled and breathless, and a point of heat in my chest threatened to burst through my ribs. I could feel her pulse, a little too fast.

So we stayed until we reached Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s at nearly two o’clock. I left Mary there, feeling a pang of regret but hoping she would manage to sleep despite the shocks. And then I returned to the cab to drive to Pinchin Lane.

I had to knock for some time at No. 3 before I could make any impression. At last, however, there was the glint of a candle behind the blind, and a face looked out at the upper window.

“Go on, you drunk – good Lord, it’s a woman,” said the face. “Who are you?”

“Mrs. Sherlock Holmes,” I said. The words had a most magical effect, for the window instantly slammed down, and within a minute the door was unbarred and open. Mr. Sherman, whom Holmes had sent me to see, was a lanky, lean old man, with stooping shoulders, a stringy neck, and blue-tinted glasses.

“Mrs?” he said. “I never would have believed it. Mr. Sherlock sent you here? What was it that he wanted?”

“He wanted a dog of yours.”

“Ah! that would be Toby. Come in, come in.”

And so I brought Holmes Toby, and we set off on the disappointing trail of Jonathan Small. We did not return to Baker Street until nine o’clock that morning. After breakfast, and more discussion, I was nearly dead on my feet, and Holmes noticed.

“I must go see to the house,” I said, rising. “I’ve neglected my work.”

“It will keep,” he said, as I swayed a little. “Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep.”

“No, I am quite all right. The maids -”

“My dear Watson, I must insist you lie down.”

I did not have the energy to argue further, and so I did. Holmes took up his violin from the corner, and as I stretched myself out he began to play some low, dreamy, melodious air – his own, no doubt, for he had a remarkable gift for improvisation. I have a vague remembrance of his gaunt limbs, his earnest face and the rise and fall of his bow. Then I seemed to be floated peacefully away upon a soft sea of sound until I found myself in dreamland, with the sweet face of Mary Morstan looking down upon me.


	3. Chapter 3

I could not stop thinking of her during the entire case. It was quite natural, of course, that I should be concerned for her and interested in her prospects. But even during our breathless chase down the river, when I certainly had enough else to think about, my mind was continually drawn to Miss Morstan, and I was glad Holmes had asked the Inspector to allow me to take the treasure to her first when – if – we at last regained it.

But we did, and I landed at Vauxhall, with my heavy iron box, and with a bluff, genial inspector as my companion. A quarter of an hour’s drive brought us to Mrs. Cecil Forrester’s. The servant seemed surprised at so late a visitor. Mrs. Cecil Forrester was out for the evening, she explained, and likely to be very late. Miss Morstan, however, was in the drawing-room, so to the drawing-room I went, box in hand, leaving the obliging inspector in the cab.

She was seated by the open window, dressed in white with a little touch of scarlet at the neck and waist. The soft light of a shaded lamp fell upon her as she leaned back in the basket chair, playing over her sweet grave face, and tinting with a dull, metallic sparkle the rich coils of her luxuriant hair. One white arm and hand drooped over the side of the chair, and her whole pose and figure spoke of an absorbing melancholy. At the sound of my footfall she sprang to her feet, however, and a bright flush of surprise and of pleasure coloured her pale cheeks.

“I heard a cab drive up,” she said. “I thought that Mrs. Forrester had come back very early, but I never dreamed that it might be you. What news have you brought me?”

“I have brought something better than news," said I, putting down the box upon the table. I could not contain my smile. “I have brought you something which is worth all the news in the world. I have brought you a fortune.”

She glanced at the iron box.

“Is that the treasure then?” she asked, coolly enough. I said it was, but she insisted that I tell her of our adventures before opening it. I narrated briefly what had occurred since I had seen her last. Holmes's new method of search, the discovery of the Aurora, the appearance of Athelney Jones, our expedition in the evening, and the wild chase down the Thames. She listened with parted lips and shining eyes to my recital of our adventures. When I spoke of the dart which had so narrowly missed us, she turned so white that I feared that she was about to faint.

“It is nothing,” she said as I hastened to pour her out some water. “I am all right again. It was a shock to me to hear that I had placed my friends in such horrible peril.”

“That is all over,” I answered. “It was nothing. Let us turn to something brighter. There is the treasure. I got leave to bring it with me, thinking that it would interest you to be the first to see it.”

“It would be of the greatest interest to me,” she said, but there was no eagerness in her voice.

I borrowed the poker and used it to twist open the hasp on the front. It sprang open with a loud snap. With trembling fingers I flung back the lid. We both stood gazing in astonishment. The box was empty!

No wonder that it was heavy. The ironwork was two-thirds of an inch thick all round. It was massive, well made, and solid, like a chest constructed to carry things of great price, but not one shred or crumb of metal or jewellery lay within it. It was absolutely and completely empty.

“The treasure is lost,” said Miss Morstan calmly.

“Oh, my dear,” I said, turning to her, but she showed no more concern than the faint sorrow I had thought I had seen earlier. “How can you be so calm?” I asked. I had been hoping for days that we would acquire the treasure for her. I felt now, after my long journey and joyful entrance, that I had been plunged into cold water by the discovery that our efforts had been futile. But she showed no sign that she was so affected.

Miss Morstan stared at the fire for a long moment. “I suppose I should like to be rich,” she said. “Or rather, I should like to be secure. But there are some things, Jane, especially what I want most – that money is no use for. I am no closer or farther from my wishes now than I was before.”

“Oh,” I said, my heart breaking for her. “Mary – I mean, Miss Morstan -”

“Mary,” she said, smiling at me with a hopeful brightness unbelievable in contrast to her former melancholy.

“Mary,” I said, “what is it? Can I help – or – I am sorry – it is your father, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said. “No, though it was a shock to learn of it for certain I did know he must be dead already. But, Jane...” Her eyes gazed desperately into mine. I reached for her shoulder, needing to comfort her. She reached up to touch my face softly, and then dropped her hand.

“You are so kind,” she said. “I don’t know if it is just how sweet you are, that you are so to everyone, or...”

When it seemed she did not intend to finish, I said, “I am certainly not so kind to everyone. Only – only to those who deserve it, Mary. No one has ever called me sweet before.”

She looked so lovely in the firelight, all white and gold, with her eyes wide and darkened. “Do come see me again,” she said. “I could not bear it if I never saw you after this was over.”

“Of course,” I whispered. “I would hate that too. Of course I will see you.”

She reached up slowly and touched my shoulder, and then suddenly pulled me to her. We embraced tightly, and I never wanted to let go.

But there was a constable waiting for me in a hansom, and I at last remembered him. “I must go,” I told Mary. She nodded and slowly released me, and I went back into the darkness with the empty box.


	4. Chapter 4

Holmes never pays much attention to the fates of his clients after their cases are over. Before, I had gone along with him in this, never too interested, but with Miss Morstan I kept my promise. It was not hard; I found I simply could not forget her.

I fretted over how to see her and what to say, however. At last I sent her a note simply asking if she’d like to meet me for tea. I felt dreadfully forward doing so even after her request, but she replied in the affirmative, even setting a date, and when I met her at Mrs. Forresters’ she seemed delighted to see me.

It was her afternoon off, and we went to a small tea shop and sat for an hour, drinking tea and eating sandwiches and cakes and talking about everything and nothing. Then we walked about London, watching passers-by and stopping for fruit-sellers and musicians. It was the middle of summer, and there was even a little sunlight filtering through the clouds.

I saw her again two weeks later, and after that we met weekly. Mrs. Forrester’s housekeeper smiled whenever she saw me, the owner of the nearest tea shop began to ask us to try new cakes she was thinking of selling, and Holmes’ cases never seemed to require my presence on Thursday afternoons. We went out together even in the rain, most weeks, but if it was really too wild Mrs. Forrester told us to use her sitting room.

It was wonderful, seeing her every week, and frustrating, because Wednesdays seemed unbearably slow and Thursdays over far too quickly. I wanted to see her every day.

But as time went on Mary had less and less leisure, for her employer was preparing to emigrate.

She had twisted her hands in her lap as she told me, looking at me with her wide blue eyes. “She was so happy that I should have that chance at a fortune, you see,” she had said, “because she intends to leave for America with the children in four months. She has family there. But now – now she has offered that I might come with her.” My throat closed in on itself, though I tried not to show it. “I’m not sure if I shall,” she continued. “I’m looking for another post. It is so busy at the house now though, with everything being moved.”

I could not plead for her to stay – I had no right to request such a thing. I tried to think of something I could do – find her a position, offer a place in my home, dredge the Thames for her inheritance. But if there was more for her in America – and I knew she was very close to her employer – how could I ask her to stay?

But she seemed to want to. She was clearly looking for a new position. When it came closer to the time they would leave, I saw her only once or twice a month, and bore much of the weight of the conversation myself, as she was looking more and more strained and distracted. I tried not to worry over it, but I did not like to see her so concerned, and more selfishly I wished she had more free time for our meetings. I could not find the words to ask her if she was staying or not.

At last one afternoon, after a long pause where both of us stared at our tea, she said, “Jane, I have had no luck in finding a new position.”

“You are leaving for America, then,” I said, before she could.

Her fingers twisted her napkin. “I have nowhere in London to stay,” she said. “I shouldn’t like to stay in a lodging house with strangers. I don’t want to leave England, but if I can’t find somewhere quickly...”

“I have a room to rent,” I said quickly. It was, more or less, the truth, though I had never intended to let it now that I did not need the money. “That is, there’s a spare bedroom. You can come stay whenever you like, you must know that, Mary. You don’t need to pay me for it, it would be a gift – that is, a favour. If that is all that is worrying you, you must stay.”

“Oh,” she said, with what seemed to be – might be – I hoped was – joy about her face. “Oh, that would be lovely. But I will pay rent, of course. I will not be a burden on you.”

Though I objected she was adamant, but she had agreed to come. We settled that she should arrive in two weeks, and I went home that evening feeling as if I was floating. I sat in the cab fidgeting and wanting to jump up and dance, and I felt like I had to keep a strict hold on myself merely to walk up to my door normally. But I did have to tell Holmes first.

“It is your house,” he said with faint amusement. “Of course I do not mind. Besides, Miss Morstan is quite charming, and might be most useful in such work as we have been doing. She has a decided genius that way; witness the way in which she preserved that Agra plan from all the other papers of her father.”

I cleaned out the second bedroom upstairs and soon Mary was ensconced in it. I was positively bursting with joy after that. We spent hours together, talking or simply sitting and reading. We went for long walks together through London. I looked forward to coming back to her when Holmes and I were on a case, when before I had seen it as merely returning to a dim ordinary life. Not that the cases were any less interesting; but now every passing second of my life seemed lit up, either by the excitement of Holmes’ mysteries or by Mary’s mere presence.

Holmes no doubt noticed it, but was silent on the matter. As for Mary, she looked nearly as happy as I. I lived to see her face light up when I arrived home. She not only enjoyed but requested my company. Some days we saw each other almost every moment, some very little, but always, through coincidence or, increasingly, design, we retired at the same time. And so at the least at the end of every day I saw her in the hall between our rooms, lit up in the dark space by the candle she held as we said good night. My chest tightened so at that sight of her that I entered my bedroom alone every night almost gasping for air.

Occasionally, though, a rather grim expression would come over her face, and she would turn inward. I was sure I knew why. She spent most evenings scanning the papers and writing letters of application, while I was writing or upstairs with Holmes. After more than a month, however, she had had no luck securing a position. She spoke of it little.

But though I should have been comforting her, I said nothing. For all I could think was that as long as she was without employment, she would stay, and be near me always rather than only at the whims of some unknown employer. It was an unworthy wish, I knew, and I kept it to myself. I merely made sure that she knew that she could stay as long as she wanted, and did not say that I should like that to be always.


	5. Chapter 5

One day, when Mary had been living about two months in the room next to mine, she was quieter than usual as we had lunch. Holmes was out investigating a case in disguise, not in need of my help. Mary glanced at me across the table several times. I smiled at her each time – it was not hard to smile at her. At last, after the meal was cleared up, she said, “Jane, it is none of my business and I am sorry if I am intruding, but is everything all right between you and Mr. Holmes?”

“Between me and Mr. Holmes!” I said. “I think so. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Oh, I am sorry,” said Mary. “Please forget it.”

“No, what has concerned you?” I asked. “I know he is sarcastic sometimes, but I did not think that would bother you. But if it does, I can ask -”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, nothing like that. If it is just your way...”

“If _what_ is?” I asked.

Mary avoided my gaze. “It is not that I don’t see that you are close,” she said. “You simply – the two of you do not – I mean – I did say it was none of my business.” She was blushing.

“Oh!” I said, realizing. “No, we are not – not lovers.”

“Oh,” said Mary. “Oh, I see. I am sorry for asking.” She still looked deeply embarrassed.

“We never have been,” I assured her. “We are simply good friends. But when I began to help him with his cases, and was seen so often in his company, people thought – well. You can imagine what they thought.”

“So it has never been more than friendship between you?” I could not read her expression, but then I had never had this conversation with anyone before.

“Yes,” I said. “It is only that. But it is far simpler if the police and our clients think of me as a married woman.”

“How awful that must have been, if people assumed merely because you were alone with him that you must be – be _fast_.” Her eyes burned with indignation on my behalf. “You, Jane! Anyone can see how respectable you are.”

“I don’t think chasing after murderers is particularly respectable,” I laughed.

“You know what I – well, perhaps _respectable_ isn’t the word. More – oh, I simply don’t like that you should have had to go through that.”

“My marriage?” I asked.

“No, I meant such, such _judgement_ ,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have had to marry, either, not just for appearances.”

“I admit very little work goes into the appearances,” I said. “You’ve seen how Holmes talks to me. But I certainly don’t regret it, Mary.” That was the one thing I had always been certain of, even now.

“Well, I shouldn’t expect to see much open affection from Mr. Holmes anyway,” said Mary. “But accounting for that, he’s clearly very fond of you. Are you sure there is nothing -”

I smiled at the very idea. “Mary,” I said, carefully, “I have quite a lot of reason to suspect that Holmes is completely uninterested in women altogether, and however much he may _like_ me I am not an exception. Do you understand me?”

Mary’s eyes widened a little. “Oh,” she said. “I think so.” She bit her lip. “Well, I suppose so long as you are both happy...”

“I hope he is,” I said. “And I am, Mary, very much.” But my throat closed a little, saying it. I had been even happier since she came. It had nothing to do with my friendship for Holmes – that was constant. But Mary was different, and how I felt for her different still. She was looking at me speculatively, though I wasn’t sure what it meant.

The front door opened, and we turned to see a disreputable workman enter the foyer, remove his hat, coat, and moustache, and transform himself into Sherlock Holmes. I smiled despite myself – I always find such transformations both amazing and a little ridiculous. “Dreadfully tedious, Watson,” he said, looking resigned but amused. “But finished at last. I don’t suppose you’ve anything better for me?”

“A telegram came,” said Mary. “It’s on the table.” Holmes picked it up and scanned it, his expression turning rather wry.

“A murder. Several days old, but Lestrade finds himself baffled,” he said. “I doubt he will say so in person, however. I must just change clothes. Coming, Watson?”

“Of course,” I said. He vanished upstairs. “Would you like to come?” I asked Mary. “I am sure he would not mind.”

“Oh, no,” said Mary. She smiled a little. “I do love to hear you talk about your cases, Jane, but I think I’ve had enough of that in person.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes. Do enjoy yourse – oh, dear, that’s not what I mean.” I laughed.

“I know what you mean.”

“Tell me all about it when you return, won’t you?”

I promised I would, and Holmes descended the stairs, now impeccably turned out. I put my hat on and smiled at Mary, and we left.


	6. Chapter 6

Over tea that afternoon we explained the case to Mary. “It was an old woman,” I said. “Mrs. Rachel Stevens. She lived with her grandson, whose parents both died ten years ago. She’d been strangled after falling asleep in her chair. She was alone in her house, all the servants were busy, and no one was expected to call. Her grandson is an art student – he was away studying. He came back and found her at teatime. There aren’t any suspects.”

“There are the grandson, and the servants,” said Holmes. “But the servants are all women, and the attack would require some strength. Moreover, none of them seems to have gone off alone during that time, and she was a very kind mistress, liked by all of them. This all happened two days ago; Lestrade has spent the intervening time attempting to search for evidence of a burglar and instead obliterating it. I don’t know why he wanted me to see the house; I may have some little talent but I am not a medium.”

“So you think there was a burglar?” Mary asked.

“I don’t think it likely,” said Holmes, “but I cannot yet rule out any possibilities, since at the moment it seems rather as if the woman strangled herself. Her grandson has a clear motive – his inheritance is not small – but there is no evidence that he or anyone else was within a hundred feet of her at the time. Not that there would be, after the police had stomped all over the room.”

“Her grandson was most helpful,” I said. “Quite a young man, but bright and clearly deeply attached to his grandmother. He suggested all sorts of possible explanations for the murder.”

“Wild speculations,” said Holmes.

“Well, I suppose so, but he was very charming.”

“Very, indeed,” said Holmes dryly. “Yet, given his motive, that would count for nothing had he not been at the National Portrait Gallery. You cannot place such faith in general impressions, Watson. I have told you dozens of times.”

“He was at the National Portrait Gallery?” asked Mary. “On the fifteenth?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “and the cloakroom attendant who took his coat confirms it.”

“But that’s impossible,” said Mary.

“Impossible?” A change came over Holmes’ face: his eyes brightened and narrowed, his features grew more pronounced, and all his formidable attention was suddenly focused on her.

“The National Portrait Gallery was closed for repairs on the fifteenth,” said Mary, calmly meeting his gaze. “There was an announcement in the paper. I noticed it because we were thinking of going, you remember?” she added, looking at me.

“That was the fifteenth?” I asked.

Mary went to the desk where a stack of articles Holmes had clipped out of newspapers waited to be pasted into his scrapbooks. She sorted through them and then came back with one. Holmes had been interested in the peculiar advertisement “seeking a valet with utmost discretion, capable of withholding his attention from unimportant matters”; Mary flipped it over.

There were a few cut off lines:

rtrait Gallery regrets  
osed for minor repa  
fteenth of this mont

Holmes examined it quickly and looked up at Mary. “That,” he said, “is irrefutable. My dear Miss Morstan, I cannot thank you enough. Watson, I suspect we’ll have some excitement shortly. First I must look into that attendant and find out what Mr. Stevens is holding over him.” He stood up decisively and threw on his coat.

He returned shortly after Mary and I had eaten a light dinner, and said nothing but, “Come along, Watson, we’ve work to do.” I was out of my chair and crossing the room in seconds.

*

We returned from Bertram Stevens’ house terribly late that night. After the police had arrived to take over we could not at first get a cab, and we walked through the cold, rainy streets for some time before hailing one. I spent the ride half dozing, only to be jolted awake with every bounce or halt. When we reached Baker Street I could barely remember how to step down from the seat.

Holmes leaned heavily against our door as he unlocked it, holding his injured left arm carefully. He fumbled the key slightly, showing he was as exhausted as I. I tried to straighten my spine and think of myself as the lady of the house, tried to get my nerves in order. I would have to get us some dinner, my nurse’s kit, hot tea. And without disturbing Mary, too. I wanted only to sit down and eat something hot at once, but none of the servants had had any idea of when we would come home, and I had told them not to wait up for us.

Holmes had managed to open the door, and he slid an arm around my waist to pull me inside. I took two steps toward the stairs to the kitchen.

Mary darted out of the sitting room. “There you are,” she said with relief. “Come upstairs. I’ll get you some soup. Let me get your coat, Jane.” I’d forgotten to take it off. Mary rang the bell, spoke to the maid, and then chivvied us upstairs.

The fire in Holmes’ room was lit and glowing warmly. Mary glanced over us quickly, ushered me to an armchair, and then said, “Mr. Holmes, what have you done to your arm?”

“I’ll get my kit,” I said.

“It’s right here, Jane, do sit down,” she retorted. “Unless it needs stitches I can see to it.”

“It doesn’t, thanks to Watson,” said Holmes, sitting in a wooden chair that he wouldn’t stain if his wound reopened. “She knocked the man out with his own poker.”

“I’d dropped my gun,” I said.

Mary smiled. “Take off your coat and roll up your sleeve,” she said to Holmes. She washed and bandaged the cut competently, and asked, “Anything else?”

“Nothing,” said Holmes. The maid entered with a tray, and Mary laid out bowls of hot soup and then helped me to the table, despite my attempt to explain that I was fine. We ate, with Mary watching us and keeping me from falling asleep in my chair or Holmes from using his injured arm.

“You’ll be all right, Mr. Holmes?” Mary asked when we were finished.

“I should think so,” said Holmes. Mary pulled the bell-rope so Jenny would come for the tray, and then wrapped an arm around me and lifted me out of my chair.

“I’ll be able to walk on my own,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Of course,” said Mary, not moving her arm. “Good night, Mr. Holmes.”

She led me up the stairs and to my bedroom. “You are sure you are not injured?” she asked.

“Only exhausted,” I said, unbuttoning my dress. “No bloodstains, you see.” I unhooked my corset and sat on the bed.

“Go to sleep, Jane,” said Mary. “You’ll be better for it in the morning.” I bent to reach my shoe, but she knelt in front of me and removed it herself, then the other. “Sleep,” she said again, rising and lightly pushing me onto the mattress. She smiled as she did it, all dim gold in the candlelight. I lay back with no more resistance. Her hand gently stroked my cheek and my eyes fell shut.

I saw the light behind my eyelids brighten and dim as she picked up the candle from the washstand. I was so close to sleep that I did not even hear the door close as she left.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning I was woken by sunlight streaming through my window. I lay still for some time, contemplating the light and wondering why it felt wrong. I never saw light in my room from that angle.

It was morning, I realized. Late in the morning, and I had not woken. Nor had anyone come looking for me. I jerked out of bed, the shock probably undoing much of the good I had gained from the rest, dressed hurriedly, and started downstairs.

Mary met me on the landing, carrying a hamper of clean dry bedlinen. I stared. “Good morning, Jane,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Holmes has just rung for breakfast. Do go in and sit down.” She seemed utterly accustomed to carrying laundry about, and I suddenly realized that despite my frequent absences with Holmes the house had been far cleaner and better managed than it normally was for some weeks now.

“Mary,” I said, horrified. “I am sorry – I did not realize that with me away you would – that is, thank you so much for stepping in, but I am sorry you had to.”

“I didn’t,” said Mary. “I asked for something to do, Jane. I hope you are not upset. But I like being busy, and so I tried to find myself work when you were gone, other than merely poring over the “Help Wanted” column.”

“Oh,” I said. “But of course I am not upset. If you do not mind doing such work I won’t stop you, but, Mary, you are a lady.”

She laughed. “A lady who quite enjoys laundry, and dusting. And I like your maids.”

“They’re very likable,” I agreed, still rather stunned. “But you won’t be paying me any more rent, Mary.”

I managed to insist on that, at least, before Holmes opened his door and asked me to give my opinion on a letter he’d received.

I have said, I think, how quickly Mary had become a natural part of my life, as if she had always lived with us. Now I realized that I could not imagine doing without her. On a purely practical level, one does not realize how terrible one is at housekeeping, or how much time it takes up, until suddenly someone else is doing it far more competently. Eventually, with a combination of delicacy and stubbornness, Holmes convinced her to accept an allowance, and I sighed in relief as she paid less attention to advertisements.

But beyond the practicalities – I have said how I felt, living with her. I was no longer always at a feverish pitch of joy, but instead seemed to feel a continuing warmth. It was hard to confine it, and I found myself reaching out for her without meaning to, touching her hand or running my palm across her shoulders. But she, I thought, was doing the same to me, and her face when looking down to mine always seemed to reflect my own suppressed excitement at her presence.

Mary began to join Holmes and I in his sitting room in the evenings. Often we merely all sat silently and companionably, I reading or writing, Mary stitching, Holmes absorbed in thought or one of his abstruse studies. But after a case we would talk the whole matter over, the evidence, the actors, and the conclusion. And occasionally Mary convinced Holmes or I to talk of our cases before we met her, and then she’d tell me to write it down and publish it. Or we might all debate some event or argument that had appeared in the papers.

There was no sudden realization, no great unforeseen change. It was an evening like any other. Holmes had been more forthcoming than usual and had told us of his first case, involving a school friend. He spoke of Victor Trevor with his usual poise, but I knew him, and it was clear to me that Trevor’s departure due to his heartbreak at the news of his father’s history had caused some similar feeling in another boy.

I have never pried, and Holmes clearly appreciates that. But he has a curious power of reading my thoughts from my gaze, and that evening his eyes caught mine and he nodded, slightly. I stood and crossed the room, on the pretext of closing the curtains, and let my hand fall on his shoulder for a moment on my way back. He glanced up at me and gave me one of his ironic smiles, but he looked fonder than anyone else would expect from him.

The conversation from there progressed to my writing, then to Australia, then to Terai and its surroundings. The firelight flickered over the faces of both my companions as Mary explained something of what she remembered of India. I let myself fade into the background a little and watch them, as Holmes, clearly, noted down all she told him in his memory in case it should come in useful.

At last Mary and I took candles and ascended the stairs. We stood together in the hallway for a long moment, smiling at each other, until I reached up and gently pulled her head down so I could kiss her.

So little changed. Our lives were so woven together already, not only mine and hers but also Holmes’. Holmes and I still went out on cases. Mary still refused to come with us but listened with fascination to the stories afterwards. The only change was that she did not use the room she had once rented, and the emotions that had felt as if they would break through my ribcage now settled warmly in the centre of my chest and stayed.


End file.
